


And If

by scheherazade



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord's, June 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And If

**Author's Note:**

> To all the cricketslash ladies, because they bring me such joy. And to [acchikocchi](archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi), because she has the best taste in OTPs.

They're everywhere, like rats. Not that you'd find a rat in this place, prim and pristine as it is. No, rats have better taste. Which begs the question of what that says about him, ushered in as he is to smiling faces and familiar handshakes and the obligatory glass of punch.

They could have at least served champagne.

He sips the fruitless blend of sweetener #3 and red dye number #5. Two more people come up to say hello before he's had a chance to spit the taste back out. He swallows it down, gives them the smile and small-talk they expect.

"Mahela! How are you? And the missus? We are so looking forward to the match, aren't we? But we'll have to support our lads, of course. What do you think of young Joe Root?"

He thinks very little, if he can help it. That's Angelo's job now. He knows what he has to know, answers what he has to answer, and lets them hear what they're looking for.

Can't blame them. He's looking for someone, too. 

The windows look over the ground's waiting green and empty stands. After a lifetime, the oval looks almost small. Even if this one is the home of cricket. It's a different cricket, he thinks, that once called this place home. A tired business suite or a raucous T20 party seems more like the bunk where modern cricket would crash.

Maybe he's getting old.

"Think I'm getting too old for this," says a voice at his elbow.

"Another two years and this is all you'll be doing," Mahela replies in Sinhalese. Kumar makes a face at him.

"Two years and I'll still be recovering from all the bruises."

"Practice was good?"

Kumar neither confirms nor denies. The way he holds his shoulders says he's prepared; the set of his mouth says his brain isn't quite convinced of this fact his body knows, but he's been doing this long enough to know when his own mind lies.

Mahela hands him the glass of punch, now lukewarm. It's an effort, not to laugh at the affronted look on Kumar's face.

"You could come say hi to the media rats with me," he suggests, "or you can stand here and pretend to think deep thoughts while holding that glass. It's very picturesque."

He leaves Kumar by the window.

 

* * *

 

For a man who's given the "most important speech in cricket history", Kumar is amazingly inarticulate when faced with an apathetic barista.

"Espresso machine's not working," the girl says, in the same monotone as her unconvincing, _Can I help?_ "Could fix you up a latte."

"But— A latte?"

"The machine's for espresso."

Kumar opens his mouth to protest the logical fallacy. Mahela edges him aside. "Just two coffees," he says. "Black. Thank you."

He pays for both. The thin paper cup scalds his palm on the walk back through Regent's Park. Kumar sips his coffee like a monk might meditate upon beads.

"How," he muses at the budding roses, "can you make latte without espresso? Does latte not mean what I think it means?"

"She's a 17-year-old working at a corner shop on summer holiday."

"What do you mean?"

Around the fountain, some children play a haphazard game of tag. They chase one another over asphalt and stone, while their mothers gossip, confident in the resilience of small breakable things.

"You've been here a week longer," he hears himself say.

"It's weird going out for coffee by yourself."

A tiny chaser falls, to a sudden silence. A whimper, and normal volume resumes with anxiety. Mahela's steps lead them away from the fountain. He asks,

"Yehali doesn't drink coffee?"

Kumar tosses his empty cup. "She prefers bookshops."

 

* * *

 

"Ronaldo's injured."

"Says who?"

"The internet."

Kumar looks up slowly from his newspaper. "Are you reading Bleacher Report again."

"We can't all be enlightened like you." Mahela clicks through the website. "Ronaldo might miss the opener."

The bed dips. Kumar peers over his shoulder at the webpage, which is 40% photo and 30% advertisement. Mahela can't imagine who'd actually believe a blinking flash image promising true love or your money back.

"They're citing another tabloid as their source," Kumar says disapprovingly.

"Well, they're not gonna cite Tolstoy."

Kumar leans on him until Mahela is forced to make room, or else be pinned to his own hotel bed. The laptop is starting to overheat. Mahela drops it on Kumar's lap and gets up.

The curtains refuse to draw completely shut. The night sky over London is like anywhere else. He listens for the soft, quick clatter of keys. Kumar types long enough that Mahela knows he's either emailing the article, or else leaving an insightful anonymous comment that no one will read.

Half past ten. His mobile blinks with a _good night, good luck, love you_ from Chris. They have separate rooms. She and Yehali will be watching a movie or having drinks, so he and Kumar can separately get a peaceful night's sleep. Because this is routine; it's strategic, understandable.

The part where Kumar's sitting on his bed instead of sleeping is also routine.

He fills a glass with tap water and thinks about getting ice from the machine down the corridor. The walk back to bed is much shorter. Kumar reaches for the glass, too, automatic.

"Get your own," Mahela grumbles, and lets him take it.

Kumar drinks half the glass. "Thanks."

"You're not welcome."

"You're always welcome."

Mahela takes his laptop back, nearly burns his fingers when they graze the fan. Kumar puts the glass on the nightstand, where it'll leave a wet ring on polished wood. He doesn't complain.

Kumar asks, "Are you angry with me?"

"For what?"

"I came here a week early to get in some practice. That's it."

"You're allowed to be a perfectionist."

A pause.

"I don't want you to be angry," Kumar says again.

Mahela closes the laptop lid. "I'm not." The plastic casing is warm against his thighs, through the material of his tracksuit bottoms. "We need to get some sleep."

After a bit, Kumar unfolds himself from the bed. Runs a hand through his hair, takes a surreptitious glance in the mirror. It almost can't be called vanity, when vanity is born of an ideal against which he measures himself.

"I missed you," Kumar says eventually.

And if those aren't quite the words he's looking for, still — he's done this long enough to know when the heart is selfish. He cracks a smile, to coax an answering one across Kumar's lips.

"I missed you, too."


End file.
